


Strawberry-Mango Margarita (Hold the Strawberry Please)

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Sweeten the Deal [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Board Games, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Drinking, Margaritas, Sleepovers, Swimming Pools, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark needs some friends, but not that kind, grown-up sleepovers, slumber parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Tony gets his sleepover and Clint gets some reassurance from his friends.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, pre Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Sweeten the Deal [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863610
Comments: 36
Kudos: 208





	Strawberry-Mango Margarita (Hold the Strawberry Please)

“We should go.” 

Nat’s head snaps up from where she’s bent over the milk crate serving as Clint’s desk, her eyes narrowed. 

“And why is this?” she asks, coolly and slowly, but he can hear the concern in her voice, can see it in the way her fingers tighten on the knife she’s been sharpening. “I thought you were settling here?” 

“What? No!” he yelps, startled. “Not, like, from SHIELD. But... _yes,_ from SHIELD. From like, _here,_ this building. Sooner... would probably be better.” 

Natasha sighs, watching him scurry around his small bunk, stuffing things into his duffel. 

“What have you done this time?” she asks wearily. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with forced calm. “If Jamieson comes out of the locker rooms a different color than he went in it’s got nothing to do with me.” 

“And it is less than he deserves?” she finishes knowingly. 

Darting behind her to grab his spare hearing aids off the nightstand, Clint drops a kiss to her hair. 

See, she gets it, understands how he works. He’d come to SHIELD expecting certain things five months ago, and they both know it. She’s got no real answer for him why the handlers he’s been given since are... less than ideal – probably the only reason why she doesn’t scold him to hell and back when he makes his displeasure known in rather, um... _colorful ways._

It’s not like it’s a high bar he’s setting here. 

He hadn’t thought he’d be put _directly_ under Coulson right off the bat. 

_Hoped,_ sure, but the dude’s a BAMF and a Level 6 on top of it – he works with more than what Clint’s got going on, at least according to SHIELD. Sure, he’s blowing through their preliminary training and climbing his way out of the junior agent pool with record-setting speed, and sure, whenever Clint steps into his office for his weekly supervisory meetings Coulson is so tense and self-contained that he looks like a soda bottle about to pop, but he’s still got a ways to go before he makes Specialist. Till then he’s stuck with the less-senior senior agents, with milk runs and ignorant assholes who look at his background and laugh, who feel threatened by what he can do and make his life a living hell... 

Well. 

Never let it be said that Clint isn’t petty – he may have accepted that this is the way things work but his revenge is still swift and merciless, and he hasn’t been caught yet. 

Which is why... 

“Natashaaaaaa,” he whines, “Let’s _go!”_

Rolling her eyes, she quickly disappears her knives and whetstone into whatever inter-dimensional pockets she’s got in this particular outfit and gets smoothly to her feet, pulling her own duffel out from under Clint’s bed. 

“You know,” she says in Russian as they step out into the hallway and Clint locks up, “You ought to be careful. There _is_ such a thing as _too_ cute.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles for the second time as he leads her quickly toward the stairs going down to the lobby. 

“Please,” she huffs, reaching over to flick his ear. “Coulson thought it was _cute_ the way you broke in here, so you’ve been playing the same prankster ever since.” 

“Can we save this conversation for later?” he mumbles, the back of his neck getting hot. 

“You really think it will go better for you with Stark in the room?” 

“No, I’m just hoping he pours enough alcohol down my throat first that I won’t remember it in the morning.” 

Nat’s head wobbles in the corner of his vision, that little side-to-side nod she does when she doesn’t want to admit that he’s got a good point. Breathing a sigh of temporary relief, he darts across the lobby and steps out onto the sidewalk just as the contaminant alarms blare and the doors all lock down. Grinning wickedly, Clint turns around and raises his fists, flipping the building – and subsequently one particular agent inside it – the double bird. 

Nat snorts and grabs him by the shoulder, shoving him face-forward and setting off for Stark Tower. They walk in silence, enjoying the sunny spring day and the bustle of the city around them, till they reach Stark’s monstrosity of a skyscraper and get buzzed in. Happy greets them in the front lobby, accepting Natasha’s kiss on the cheek and Clint’s handshake-turned-hug and escorting them through the masses of besuited lawyers and white-coated scientists to the private elevators. 

“What’s up J!” Clint calls cheerfully as the doors slide shut and the car starts its smooth ascent. “How ya been?” 

“As well as ever, Agent Barton,” the AI replies politely, and if Clint wasn’t groaning over his new title he’d be tickled by the slight tone of amusement in the artificial voice. 

“You’re in for it tonight then,” Nat says with a smirk. “You should have let me get it out of my system earlier, spaced it out, throughout the day.” 

“Shush you!” he grumbles. “How’d Stark find out anyway?” 

“He has alerts programmed to flag both yours and Agent Romanov’s names, both within SHIELD’s systems and without,” Jarvis explains. “He likes to keep an eye out for his friends.” 

“And besides,” Stark calls from the bar as the elevator doors slide open and they step out into his penthouse suite, “No one ever tells me anything, so how else am I supposed to learn?” 

“Hey Tones,” Clint greets, tossing his duffel onto the couch as he crosses the room and pulls Stark into a hug. 

“Birdie,” he replies, hugging him back before he turns to Natasha and gives her a hug of her own, delicate and brief. “Spy Games.” 

“How are you?” Natasha asks, and Stark offers her a light smirk. 

“Better,” he replies, lifting the glass of green sludge he’d been mixing in a toast before gulping it down and rinsing the glass in the sink. “Once I analyzed the information you sent me I was able to reverse-engineer a cure for the palladium poisoning easily enough, so thanks for that.” 

“You’re recovered then?” she asks, and Clint melts a little to hear the concern in her tone. 

She’s come a long way since he first met her. 

“Almost,” Tony replies, leading them over to the sitting area where fluffy couches have been pulled in close to a low, wide coffee table stacked with board games and decks of cards. “I’m at about 98%, should be at a hundred by next week.” 

“That’s good buddy,” Clint says sincerely as they flop onto the couch. 

He tucks himself into the corner so that he can throw his legs over Tony’s lap, watch him lean into Natasha. He _does_ look a lot better – his natural tan is coming back, the bruising under his eyes is gone, and he looks a lot less tired, a lot less... haunted. He had been in a bad place after Afghanistan, after Obie, and the poisoning didn’t help. He’s finally starting to look like himself again, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief. 

“So what’s on the menu for the afternoon?” he asks, injecting a bit of eager energy into his voice, just to get away from all the fuzzy feel-goods. 

“Hmm, gossip first,” Tony murmurs, his eyes half-closed because Nat’s started scritching her fingers through his hair. “Then pizza. Pep’s flying in from Atlantic City – she'll be here in a couple hours. So I figured later we could maybe swim or hot tub...” 

“Also, alcohol and cake,” Clint reminds him. 

“Duh,” Stark agrees. “Pizza first though.” 

Wriggling around on the couch under the pretense of pulling his phone out of his pocket, he ends up with his head in Nat’s lap and his feet in Clint’s. With anyone else, Clint probably would have cracked a joke and pushed him off, but it’s Tony and Tony doesn’t like to be touched or held or trusted. 

Except when he does. 

Over the years Clint and Nat have managed to worm their way beneath the armor, both literally and figuratively. It’s taken a lot of time and a lot of trauma-intervention, a lot of lucky bits of fate. Clint was there with Rhodey when they found him in the desert – Natasha was on the team that helped take Obie out of the equation. It’s happened over years, happened in lots of little starts and stops as they proved to Tony again and again that they were willing to help without expecting anything in return, and somehow, they’ve found themselves in the exclusive position of being a trusted friend. 

It’s not one he intends to lose, which means he ends up digging his thumbs into Tony’s arches hard enough to make him purr. 

“I’m getting the grilled-peach-and-prosciutto,” the former play-boy announces, to Clint and Natasha’s groans. “Hush! You two are like, the opposite of food snobs. You’re... you’re food _slobs!”_

“Pizza is _supposed_ to be greasy and cheesy,” Clint argues, pinching his ankle. 

“So a large double-pepperoni with a stuffed crust for HawkAss,” he deduces, tapping away at his phone. “And, hmm... thin crust margherita for you?” 

“Chicken pesto please,” Nat corrects. 

“Garlic knots and buffalo wings on the side,” he adds. “Do we want tiramisu? Or the double-fudge cake.” 

“Double fudge!” Clint and Nat chorus. 

Two minutes later their order has been routed through Jarvis and they’re all three kneeling around the coffee table playing an intense three-man game of War. To Clint’s delight they spend the next half-hour talking about Tony and his progress and all the things he’s doing to the Iron Man suit. They talk about Pepper and Stark Industries and even chatter briefly about Nat’s new embroidery hobby, and he finds himself getting lulled into a sense of complacency. They’re playing Hungry Hungry Hippos when Pepper comes striding into the room in a striped pantsuit, an assistant hurrying along behind her balancing a briefcase and a stack of pizza boxes over his forearms. 

“Thank you Andy,” she says kindly as he sets them all down on the island and hands her a clipboard and a pen. “Take the rest of the night off – I will be.” 

“Have a good evening Miss Potts,” he says formally, snatching the clipboard and disappearing in record time. 

Pepper waits until the door has slid shut behind him before immediately kicking off her heels and coming over to them, dropping heavily onto the couch with a weary sigh. 

“You’re working too hard Peps,” Tony says, worry crossing his face. 

“Pot, kettle,” she says, her head tipped back on the cushions and her eyes closed. “But I’ve taken the rest of the weekend off since I knew we were having a slumber party.” 

“Whoot whoot!” Clint cheers quietly, bouncing to his feet and leaning down to drop a kiss to Pepper’s forehead as he heads for the kitchen. 

She laughs, reaches out and squeezes Natasha’s hand as she passes to follow after Clint, and by the time they’ve gotten the pizza all doled out onto plates and mixed up a pitcher of mango margaritas – no strawberry – she's changed into a pair of red and gold lounge shorts and a soft white t-shirt. Her hair is back in a looser ponytail and the tightness around her eyes has softened, and Clint gives her a quick cuddle when she approaches to grab her plate. 

She kisses him on the cheek, her eyes sparkling, before heading back to the couch and putting herself down practically in Tony’s lap. 

It’s good, having her back, and Clint feels the last of the tension he’d been holding at the base of his skull drain away. The thing about Tony – who he’s adopted the same way he’d adopted Nat so long ago – is that he needs to be taken care of a little bit, and part of that is making sure that Pepper is taken care of. It had taken the two of them a long time to admit that they cared about each other the way they really do, and even longer to figure out a way to be together that they were both comfortable with. That they can be themselves together, totally at ease with Clint and Nat – it's a gift he’s happy they can give them, and one he thinks Tony appreciates even more than the occasional red herring they toss out to the media. 

It’s another hour catching up with Pepper, all of them pigging out and stuffing themselves on pizza and sweet, fruity drinks. It’s grins and laughing and a rousing game of Monopoly, and Clint relaxes. Nat’s a dirty cheat, Stark is aggressively strategic, and Pepper far too quiet as she obtains every railroad on the board, while Clint mostly relies on luck and a healthy dose of sleight of hand, so it’s way too competitive for a board game, but it’s awesome and he loves it. 

There’s safety here, at least until it shatters. 

“So I understand congratulations are in order _Agent_ Barton,” Pepper teases, smirking at him over the rim of her glass. 

Clint groans, dropping forward to bang his head against the coffee table, and Tony tuts consolingly, petting his hair. 

“There, there,” he says snarkily, reaching back for the pitcher and refilling his glass. “You know we have to bust your balls over this, Hawkeye. You’ve never exactly been a team player.” 

Natasha snickers and Clint shoots her a glare. 

“It gets _so_ much better than that Stark,” she says, yelping when Clint pokes her in the ribs where she’s ticklish. 

“Oooo, really? Do tell,” he purrs, leaning forward with his chin in his hands, elbows on the table as he bats his eyelashes at her. 

“Don’t get ahead of the story,” Pepper scolds, smacking him on the shoulder. “Seriously though Clint, congratulations. From everything Natasha and Phil have told me it’s not easy to become a full agent, let alone as quickly as you have.” 

_“Phil,”_ Stark huffs, even as Clint snaps upright again and narrows his eyes at her. “His first name is _Agent.”_

“You guys know Phil?” he hears himself ask cautiously, too tipsy to stop his instinctive response, attuned to anything Coulson. 

“He’s been trying to recruit Tony to help SHIELD for a few years now,” Pepper explains, cocking her head and watching him closely. “And he helped out with the whole... _I am Iron Man_ situation.” 

“You didn’t tell me _Coulson_ ran that op for you!” Clint yelps indignantly, turning on Nat with a scowl. 

“You never asked,” she replies sweetly, sipping at her drink. 

“Wait, wait, how do _you_ know Agent?” Stark asks, suddenly zeroing in on the matter at hand. 

“I don’t,” he responds immediately, hoping to shut down the line of questioning before it starts. “He was there the day I came in, that’s all.” 

“Oh, that’s not even _close_ to all,” Stark argues, sitting up like a hound that’s caught the scent. “You’re all red Barton.” 

“Clint’s got a cruuuuuush,” Natasha sing-songs from across the table. 

“I’m not... I _don’t_ know him,” he argues, feeling the blush Stark had accused him of burn even hotter. “I just... hoped he’d be my handler, but he’s obviously not interested so.” 

A beat of silence passes and Clint wraps his arms protectively around his knees, only just managing not to hide his face. 

“Well why the hell not?” Tony demands a moment later. “What’s wrong with this guy?” 

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” Clint argues, a protective anger suddenly spiking in his belly even as Pepper smacks Tony a second time. “He’s perfect. Coulson’s a badass, like, you have no idea. And have you seen his suits?” 

Pepper nods knowingly, but Tony just blinks at him, eyes wide. 

“Ok, I totally get it,” he says to Natasha. “He’s got it bad.” 

Clint scowls – he hadn’t meant to say any of that. 

Stupid mango margarita. 

“Well _I_ don’t blame you Clint,” Pepper says consolingly, reaching over to squeeze his knee. “Phil _is_ handsome, and very good at what he does.” 

“Hey, hey,” Stark protests, but Pepper just giggles tipsily and leans over to kiss his cheek. 

“I don’t know anything about him,” Clint insists, “Just... the gossip, which you can’t trust _at all._ I mean, if he really did kill that guy in Panama with a paper clip that’s super hot, but nobody can prove it.” 

“So why don’t you ask him out?” Pepper proposes. “He’s said he’s dated men in the past, and he’s very sweet. I’m sure he’d give you a chance.” 

“ ‘S not very professional,” Clint mumbles, his cheeks warm. 

Not that it’s a good excuse; he _could’ve_ asked Coulson out by now – the guy obviously doesn’t want to _work_ with him. 

“He’s chicken,” Natasha corrects, earning another scowl. “Coulson spent six years trying to recruit him...” 

“Yeah, and then when I came in he said he wanted me and then _nothing,”_ Clint snaps, defensive anger suddenly spilling over. “He took me for fucking pancakes and negotiated a contract giving me way more freedom and way more money than I deserved and then he was _gone.”_

His three friends, fuck, his _only_ friends, all look at him with something like stunned pity and Clint wishes he’d never come here. 

“Eighty-three minutes,” he says flatly, flicking a Chance card across the gameboard to knock his scotty dog piece over the edge of the table into Tony’s lap. “He spent eighty-three minutes with me and it was enough to change his mind.” 

A heavy silence drops like a stone into sand. 

“Is this what you’ve been hiding under all the snark and prank wars?” Natasha says slowly. “Clint. Coulson is Fury’s right-hand man, you know that. He doesn’t take on junior agents...” 

“You don’t see him in our meetings Nat,” he argues, all his insecurities crashing out of him. “He looks like he can’t wait till they’re over, like he’s counting the damn minutes...” 

“Well it sounds to me like Clint might not be the only one with a crush,” Pepper declares, leaning back against the couch and sipping smugly on her drink. 

“I... what?” 

“Well from everything I heard, Phil totally fanboyed all over you when you came in,” she says, ticking off her fingers. “He tried for six years to recruit you. He took you for _pancakes_ – I'm assuming stuffed pancakes from the diner over on eighth, which is his favorite and a safe haven from work that he doesn’t share with _anyone. And...”_

Pepper pauses, her eyes twinkling, and Clint can feel his heart sitting in his throat. 

_“And,_ he’s been skipping _our_ weekly lunches for the last three months because he’s been putting together a proposal for a three-man strike team composed of one handler, one infiltration specialist, and one marksman.” 

Stunned, Clint forgets to breathe until Natasha slugs him hard on the shoulder. 

“I _told you!”_ she crows, and Clint frowns, rubbing his shoulder as he tries to tamp down on the hope. 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he grumbles. “He hasn’t said... I mean, _has_ he said anything?” 

Pepper snickers and shakes her head. 

“No, but I’ve been trying to set him up with a friend for a while and he’s been _very_ reluctant,” she confides. “He hasn’t told me why, but I’m starting to have a sneaking suspicion.” 

“We should call him,” Tony carols suddenly, bouncing back into the conversation with all the tact of a pineapple bomb. “Jarvis, call Agent Age...” 

In the chaos that ensues when all three of them tackle the genius back onto the couch, they don’t realize that the call has actually connected. 

“Is there a _reason_ you’re bothering me at eleven o’clock at night Mr. Stark?” Coulson asks, his dry, exasperated tone echoing down from the speakers recessed into the ceiling. 

“Sorry Phil,” Pepper calls from her position lying over Tony’s legs. “I couldn’t stop him in time.” 

“Pepper,” Coulson says, his tone warming. “You’re back from Atlanta?” 

Clint’s never heard that tone from him before, and it distracts him enough that when Stark slurps his tongue across his palm, he lets go and uncovers his mouth with a disgusted yelp. 

“Agent!” Stark snaps offendedly, “How come you won’t take Hawkass out...” 

The strangled _ooph_ sound him makes when Natasha sits on him is one of the most satisfying Clint’s ever heard. 

“Mr. Stark, if you’re aware of Agent Barton’s current location I suggest you spit it out,” Phil snarls. 

All four of them startle and look up at the speakers, clearly shocked by Coulson’s sudden venom, and the slow smirk that Natasha levels in his direction sends heat coursing through Clint’s body. 

“Um, hey Coulson,” he calls sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, me and Nat are both here.” 

He can feel the pause that follows beating against his skin, like the tick of a clock, but when he speaks again Coulson’s voice is smooth, calm, and controlled. 

“You didn’t log out of HQ,” he says, abruptly calm and cool again. “You were meant to be in debrief at sixteen-hundred hours.” 

Clint swallows hard and flicks her a glance. 

“We um... we couldn’t get back in?” he tries, and Nat rolls her eyes at him so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out of her head. 

“Mm, yes,” Coulson hums flatly. “We’ve been on lockdown for several hours – apparently an unknown chemical agent was released in one of the locker rooms. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you agent?” 

“No sir!” Clint says smartly. 

Underneath him, Stark manages to wriggle some room for himself and shouts out toward the ceiling. 

“Clint wants to...” 

Even over the cacophony of yelps and squeals and rustling, Clint can hear Coulson sigh, the long, pained, exasperated one he saves for special occasions. 

“Don’t kill him Romanoff,” he instructs tiredly, “The paperwork isn’t worth the satisfaction.” 

Tony squawks indignantly and Nat smirks. 

“No promises,” she replies, staring down at Tony with narrowed eyes, their noses just inches apart. 

The genius is smart enough not to say anything, but he does stick his tongue out at her. 

“I expect you both back tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred,” Coulson says, then, impossibly softer, “Barton. Don’t let Stark steal you away. I have plans for you.” 

And then the call is disconnecting with a click, leaving Clint unable to breathe with a thundering heart and pants that are suddenly feeling a little too tight. 

All around him, his friends have gone quiet, watching him stare up at the speakers in the ceiling like he’s not about to break with stupid hope. It’s ridiculous – it’s just a crush – not like he’s in love or it’s the end of the world, so he clears his throat sharply and pushes himself to his feet, hauling Natasha up after him and then helping Pepper far more gently. 

Tony is quiet until he’s on his feet, then, like nothing’s happened - “Let’s swim. I’ve got more mango margarita.” 

“Bring the cake,” Natasha demands, turning toward the doors that lead out onto the balcony. 

“Not in the pool!” he shouts, but she’s already pushing out onto the deck and pulling her shirt over her head, revealing the black bikini top underneath. 

“Come on Clint,” Pepper says, bumping his shoulder as she passes him. “Come throw me in!” 

Nodding, he shakes off the mood and trails after her, tugging off his own shirt and dropping it along the way. Nat’s doing little ballerina circles in the shallower end, so he follows Pepper to the other side and picks her up to toss her into the deep. She comes up laughing and he cannonballs in after her, and Stark comes with more booze and the cake he’d said he wouldn’t bring and they laugh, the New York city lights gleaming all around them in the dark.


End file.
